


i think of you (i want you, too) i'd fall for you

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mob Boss Billy Hargrove, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Trauma, Whump, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: “Be home soon,” Billy says.Steve nods.  “I’ll be waiting for you.”He won’t be.  They both know he won’t be, not until next week, but it’s a nice sentiment anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober Day 1: Shaking Hands

Steve doesn’t waste time, marching through the streets. He keeps his eyes down, on the pavement, watching as the falling snow hits the sidewalk and melts almost immediately. 

It’s not cold enough to stick, yet. 

It is cold enough, though, for Steve to have to huddle inside of his coat as he rounds the corner, down one alley and then toward another. He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets, as deep as they’ll go, the wind sneaking and snaking in to bite at whatever bare skin it can reach; he’s got no gloves, back in his apartment. 

He used to. Worn and warm and black, supple leather. He forgot them, along with so many of his things, back home. Or what used to be home. 

He comes to a stop outside of a back door. It’s big and heavy and metal, and Steve winces as he pulls a hand free from his pocket to knock three times. Even just that makes his knuckles ache. He clenches his teeth to keep them from chattering, stepping back from the door as a slat slides open, and offering a tight smile. 

The door slides open. Steve is quick to step inside; escape the cold. 

“He’s waiting,” Tommy, Steve’s usual doorman, says as he slides the door shut behind him and locks it.

Steve rubs his hands together, shoves up his coat sleeve, and checks his watch. “I’m on time.” 

“He’s early,” Tommy shrugs. “Arms out.” 

Steve turns to him, holding his arms away from his sides. Tommy pulls out a wand, running it over his arms, his sides, his legs. He doesn’t even have to tap the inside of Steve’s knee to get him to spread his legs; Steve’s done this a dozen times, now. He knows the drill. 

The wand beeps over Steve’s wrist. Tommy checks his watch, takes it, and sets it in the basket on the table next to the door. Steve will get it when he leaves, he knows, but it still makes him falter every time. 

When the wand goes off at his side, Steve pulls out his phone and hands it over. 

“Go on up,” Tommy says. “Carol will pat you down up top.” 

Steve grunts but nods. He knows how this all works, but he also knows that Tommy is contractually obligated to tell him every time. 

Just in case, or some shit. 

Steve sighs and shuffles along. His shoes are wet on the tile flooring, and his steps echo a little around him. 

He’s pretty sure this building used to be a hotel. The bottom floor is laid out like it; a kitchen off the back hallway, a freight elevator that goes up to the roof, and the lobby. Still carpeted and kept up, clean, but otherwise hauntingly empty every time Steve pushes through the door that leads to the service area and toward a line of elevators. 

He beelines for the one at the center. Just like always. 

The cold clings to him on the ride up. He thinks it’s the heat of the building, seeping in, making him realize just how low the temperature is outside. It makes him shudder, jaw aching to keep from chattering. 

He needs to buy a better coat. 

When the doors slide open, Carol is standing there, looking pleasant as can be. She smiles at Steve as he shuffles up, unbuttoning out of his coat, and makes quick work of searching it before patting him down. 

“All clear,” Carol hums, pursing her lips at him. “But you look like a drowned cat.” 

“It’s snowing,” Steve says, folding his coat over his arm.

Not _ I usually have an hour to clean up before he gets here. _ Not _ sorry. _

Carol rolls her eyes. “Go on in.” 

She hands him a key. It’s one of those magnetic ones, that he has to tap to the door, and when he hears the mechanical whir of it unlocking, he steps inside.

The lights are already on. Steve can hear music coming from the study. He can smell cigar smoke. 

The top floor was always, or has been, converted into a suite. There’s a living room, a bedroom with an attached master bath, a kitchen, and a den. 

The den is usually kept locked tight. Steve isn’t allowed in there. 

He can’t really find it in himself to complain. He’s certainly paid enough not to. 

Lingering in the foyer, Steve toes off his shoes and hangs up his coat. He thinks he should knock on the door leading into the den, but he sneaks by instead. Heads for the bedroom and toward the closet. 

Hanging there, neatly pressed, are a number of options. None that Steve can take home with him. He picks a blue sweater, thick and soft, that reminds him a little too much of home. Cashmere, he knows, when he pulls it off the hanger. Just by the touch. 

He grabs a pair of jeans from the dresser. Underwear. Socks. He’s fucking cold; sue him. 

When he’s got everything, he heads into the bathroom. Usually, he’d take a shower. Clean himself up a bit better than a few splashes of warm water on his face and a drag of his fingers through his hair, but company is already present and accounted for. Waiting. 

Steve’s been told not to keep him waiting. 

He’s dressed in no time, still rubbing at his arms, just trying to warm up. On his way out of the bedroom, he stops at the bedside table and plucks up the gold band there, sliding it into place on his left hand. Then, he makes his way to the kitchen. 

There’s still music. It’s low, some steady rock tune Steve doesn’t know the name of, but he likes the cadence, and he lets it sway him as he starts digging into the cabinets and the fridge. Pulling out a pot, a pan, a cutting board; finding all the ingredients from the list he left with Carol stocked. He starts heating oil in the pan on the stove and then sets to peeling the garlic. 

It’s not until the pasta is straining in the sink, steam rising, and the sauce is a cloudy pink, bubbling on the stove top as Steve stirs in the fresh cut basil, that he feels hands on his hips. A mouth just behind his ear.

“Smells good.” 

“Tortellini alla rosa,” Steve says, with a little sigh, and leans back into the heat of a broad chest, head tilting over. “You said you liked it when I cooked you _ that Italiano shit. _ And I’m directly quoting.” 

There’s a huff of breath on the line of his throat, a laugh, and hands squeeze at his hips. “I’m not complaining.” 

“You shouldn’t be,” Steve says, left hand falling down to the one at his hip, threading his fingers there and feeling the _ click _ of matching metals rings. “Hungry?” 

Steve feels lips. Then teeth. Then tongue. 

“Starved.” 

Steve shudders.

But there’s a click of a tongue, and then Steve’s being coaxed around. He turns, meeting blue eyes, and frowns as both of his hands are scooped up and brought between them. 

“You’re _ freezing, _ baby.” 

Lips press the backs of Steve’s trembling fingers. Steve watching, something unfurling in his belly, and he makes a sound from the back of his throat. 

“It’s cold out,” Steve says. 

“And you haven’t warmed up, yet?” His lips linger over the glint of gold on Steve’s hand, his eyes narrowed as he looks at Steve. 

“Didn’t want to leave you waiting,” Steve says. 

Another click of the tongue. 

“Billy,” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes as Billy starts pulling him away from the stove. “_ Dinner--" _

“Can wait,” Billy says. “You’re going to take a warm shower. I’ll finish the food. We’ll eat in bed.” 

Steve doesn’t argue. Mostly because a warm shower sounds _ divine. _

As Billy stops them in the doorway to the bedroom, Steve leans in and kisses his cheek. Billy’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into it. Like he’s hungry for it. 

Starved. 

“There’s fresh parmesan in the fridge,” Steve says. “The sauce should be pretty much done.” 

“I’ve got it, baby.” Billy says, and then ushers Steve into the bedroom. “Go get warm.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 2: Explosion

Steve didn’t have much of anything other than his name when he moved to Chicago. 

He had a little over two hundred dollars in his pocket, an ID he could no longer use, and a duffle bag full of whatever clothes he could grab quick in the trunk of his car. Which, to be fair, wasn’t even  _ his car. _

He’d had to ditch the BMW on the side of the road. Had to cover it in gasoline. Had to light it up. Stayed until the flames reached the gas tank and it popped like a bottle of warm champagne. 

The sound of it had rang in his ears for days after. Not because blowing up his own car was traumatizing, but because it reminded him horribly of other things that were. 

Hopper told him it was the right thing. Said that and then shoved the keys to an old hatchback in his hand and told him to run. So Steve had run. 

And with nothing other than his name, a little over two hundred dollars in his pocket, and an ID he could no longer use, Steve made it to Chicago and started working under the table at a restaurant in Little Italy, scrubbing dishes and bussing tables and blending in with the college students that came and went. 

That’s where he saw Billy for the first time. Or, rather, how Billy saw him. 

***

“I fuckin’ hate how cold the winters are here,” Billy tells him, after their plates are emptied and set aside on the bedside table, and he’s got his arms around Steve, pulling him in close. “Makes me miss the west coast.” 

Steve knows he means California, but he never actually says it. Steve doesn’t think he has to, even though sometimes he wants to ask what it’s like out there. 

That’s not part of the deal, though. 

Because as real and as warm as it feels to have Billy curl up with him under the covers, it’s about as real as the ring on Steve’s left hand. In other words: a total sham. 

The truth is, Billy pays Steve to be here and play house husband once a week. He pays Steve to make dinner for him and curl up under the covers and dress up and kiss him. 

And Steve was desperate enough to accept the deal when it was first offered. 

“Should be used to it,” Steve mutters, watching as Billy kisses each of his fingers, like he keeps expecting to find them still shaking. “Grew up with weather like this. But the wind…” 

“The wind is awful,” Billy agrees. 

This is usually how their nights end. Curled up in bed or on the couch, together, talking about nothing and everything all at once. 

When Steve was first sat down at a table in the back corner of a little cafe and given a tablet to look over a contract by a stern looking redhead, he’d expected sex to be at the top of the list of requirements. Instead, he’d found clause after clause about  _ domestic expectations _ and absolute secrecy. It was a marriage, a fake marriage, where Steve had expected straight-forward prostitution. He was being hired as a companion; nothing more, nothing less, with addendums to be added as necessary. 

That’s not to say that sex isn’t on the table. It is. It’s written in the back of the contract as an option if he consents and initiates. 

Steve hasn't initiated. 

The only reason he hasn’t is because, as much as this is an illusion Billy built for himself, Steve can’t help but buy into it a little bit more each time he does it. Finds himself looking forward to it each week. Misses these moments, curled up together, when he’s home alone. 

And Steve doesn’t even know Billy’s  _ last name. _

“I have to go, soon.” Billy tells him as Steve hooks an ankle behind his calf and pulls him closer on the bed. 

Steve grunts. “Work, work, work. All you do is work.” 

Billy’s grin is bright, even in the dim light of the room. “Yeah, but I always come back to you, don’t I?” 

“But maybe I miss you when you’re gone,” Steve says.

Because it’s what he’s supposed to say. Because maybe it’s a little true. 

Billy leans in, across the pillows, and kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Maybe I miss you, too.” 

Steve doesn’t freeze the way he did the first time Billy kissed him. Instead, he melts forward, seeking more. Tilts his head, offers up his mouth, and groans when Billy meets him in the middle. When he kisses him slow, sweet, steady. 

But then Billy’s pulling back. Grimacing as his phone  _ chirps _ from beside the bed. 

Steve props himself up on an elbow as Billy rolls over and checks it. As he huffs out a curse and stands, tucking it into his back pocket. 

“I’ve gotta go, baby.” Billy says. 

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Steve replies. 

He always does, when Billy leaves. And Billy always leaves. 

He pads after Billy to the foyer. Helps him into his suit coat-- bespoke and cut perfectly to fit his broad shoulders-- and smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt before rocking up onto his toes to press a kiss to the scar at Billy’s brow. He even combs his fingers through the curls on top of Billy’s head, grinning as Billy reels him in, fingers hooked into the waistband of the sweats he’d curled up in after his shower, and hums as Billy presses his face to Steve’s throat. 

Steve’s a little taller than him. They fit together easily. Billy presses his mouth to Steve’s pulse, and Steve feels the scrape of Billy’s facial hair against the sensitive skin of his neck. 

“Be home soon,” Billy says. 

Steve nods. “I’ll be waiting for you.” 

He won’t be. They both know he won’t be, not until next week, but it’s a nice sentiment anyway. 

When Billy pulls back, he sighs. He lets go of Steve like he really doesn’t want to, and then pads toward the door-- only stopping when he catches sight of Steve’s coat, hanging from the rack. 

He plucks at it, frowning, and glances over his shoulder. 

“Don’t go out in this,” Billy says. “Not tonight. You’ll catch your death.” 

Steve grunts in agreement, but doesn’t promise to stay. They both know it would be a lie. 

“Goodnight, Steve.” Billy says. 

Steve nearly jolts right out of his skin. Billy never uses his name, not really, but Steve’s already watching as he steps out the door. As he leaves. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t sad to see him go. 

***

He was living out of his car-- or, rather, the car Hopper gave him-- when he first got to Chicago. Then, after he got enough cash, out of a cheap motel. 

Now, with the money he gets from playing house with Billy, he’s got a decent little apartment. It’s not much, just a multi-roomed loft in what used to be a warehouse, but it’s enough for Steve. 

He grew up with extravagance. He gets a taste of it once a week. But he  _ likes _ living in his little one-bedroom, with the fire escape right outside of his bedroom window on the nights he can’t sleep, and the stray cat that’s made a home of the foot of his bed. He likes how  _ different _ it is from everything he’s ever had. 

It helps him delineate between  _ then _ and  _ now _ when he wakes up, a scream caught in his mouth, cold sweat on his skin. 

His cat rouses at the foot of the bed with a disdained  _ yowl.  _ Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and pats his lap. 

“Sorry, Binx,” he says. 

The cat stares at him. Then, it gets up, pads close, and curls up between his thighs. 

Steve’s still shaking. Still caught up in whatever nightmare sank its fingers into his skull and shook his brain all around. He wishes, desperately, that he wasn’t alone. 

Steve scratches at Binx’s ears idly, leaning back against the headboard. His eyes flit, lazy, around the room. He counts five things he can see. Then ten. 

By the time he’s done, his breath has calmed back down. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 3: Delirium

Billy was right, Steve thinks miserably as he trudges through the sleet on the sidewalk, he  _ is _ going to catch his death in this coat. 

He’s already got a runny nose. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. He feels itchy and too big for his own skin. Hot and horribly cold all at once. 

He’s probably sick. But he’s got a contractual obligation to fill. 

He goes through the motions with Tommy. With Carol. Billy’s not here, yet, and it gives Steve time to get potato soup simmering on the stove after he changes and gets his wedding ring on. 

It’s done and sitting, warm and ready, when he hears the door open. 

“Baby?” Billy calls out. 

“In here,” Steve replies. 

His throat is tight and scratchy. He can feel it; hear it in his voice. He clears his throat and sips at a hot toddy, hoping it’ll start soothing the burning ache soon. 

Billy rounds the corner, already frowning. It makes Steve pause and shuffle back a step. Sometimes Steve forgets, just how intimidating he can look. How much taller, bigger, he seems to be when the mood strikes. How even his stride changes; like an animal, just waiting to be uncaged. 

He doesn’t usually, not around Steve. Steve’s only seen it a handful of times-- when one of Billy’s guys interrupts or he’s still coming down from whatever it is that he does when he’s not here, playing pretend, with Steve. 

Steve locks up as Billy approaches him. Goes still as he moves quick across the kitchen to press in close. Holds steady as a hand comes up and presses to his forehead. 

“Last time you were freezing,” Billy huffs, brows pinched. “This time you’re sick?” 

“I’m not--” Steve pauses, sniffles, and then pushes Billy’s hand away. “You just  _ got _ here.” 

“Carol told me you looked like shit,” Billy shrugs. “Couch or bed?” 

“What?” 

“Couch or bed, baby?” Billy asks again, a little slower, grin finally easing over his face. “Pick one before I pick for you.” 

Steve crosses his arms. “Couch.” 

“Okay.” 

And then Billy’s hand is on his lower back, guiding him toward the living room. He gets Steve on the couch and grabs the throw blanket off the back, draping it over his shoulders before plopping down next to him and pulling Steve until he’s resting against Billy’s chest. 

Steve’s got half a mind to argue. To hiss and spit like a wet cat at the coddling. He’s always hated being babied when he was sick. 

But then there are fingers in his hair. Then Billy’s kissing his forehead and huffing out a laugh. 

“Next time, just text your contact,” Billy tells him. “Tell them you’re not feeling well. Everyone gets sick, baby.” 

Steve sinks into him with a sigh. His eyes flutter shut. 

Billy’s fingers in his hair feels so  _ good _ . 

That’s the only excuse he has for what comes out of his stupid fucking mouth. 

“Didn’t wanna miss you,” he says. 

Billy falters. When Steve makes a disgruntled sound, his fingers keep moving. 

“Yeah,” Billy mutters, pressing his nose to the top of Steve’s head. “But you gotta take care of yourself, pretty boy.” 

“Take care of myself just fine.” 

“You’re sick,” Billy counters. 

Steve groans, pushing at Billy’s chest, to sit up proper. “I can  _ go _ \--” 

“No,” Billy says, reeling him back in and twisting to rest back in the corner of the couch, holding Steve to him; Steve’s never realized, until now, how strong Billy is. He doesn’t think he could get away if he  _ tried _ . “You’re staying. And we’re getting you a better coat.” 

“We are?” 

Steve doesn’t think that’s in the contract. In fact, he’s pretty sure it says that any clothing bought for him has to stay on the premises.

Billy just holds him a little tighter and says: “Yes. We are.” 

***

Steve dozes in and out. At some point, his head ends up in Billy’s lap, cheek squished against his thigh. 

He doesn’t dream. Just drifts. Anchored only by the hand in his hair. By the soft drone of the TV. 

With his eyes fluttering, half open and heavy, he thinks, between moments, that he’s back in his apartment. That he’s there, with Billy, curled up on his couch at home. Safe and warm. Being taken care of. 

He only fully wakes when the front door clatters open. He blinks, hazy, at Tommy. 

“Boss, there seems to be a situation,” he says, glancing between Billy and Steve, throat working. 

Steve can feel the way tension threads through Billy. The way the muscles in his legs lock up. 

He grunts, poking at his thigh. “Stop it.” 

Billy jerks a little, and when Steve twists over onto his back, Billy’s staring down at him. Steve can’t read the expression-- but, really, Steve can’t ever properly read Billy’s expressions. 

“It’s fine,” Steve mumbles, voice rough and tired. “Go to work.” 

Steve watches as Billy’s mouth twists in a grimace. Hums as Billy presses a thumb between his brows and smoothes it up. 

“You’ll be here?” Billy asks. 

“I’ll see you when you come back,” Steve says, like he always does, and Billy’s frown just deepens. 

“You’ll stay the night here,” he insists. 

“Can’t,” Steve says, and then clumsily pushes up, blanket bunching in his lap as he sits, head swimming. “Gotta-- there’s a date I’m gonna be late for.” 

Steve hears someone suck in a breath so quick and tight that it sounds like a hiss. When he looks, Tommy’s standing there, wound tight, eyes darting between Steve and Billy. 

Steve realizes, a little late, what he’s said. He lets his head lull over and back, meeting cold blue eyes. Steve thinks maybe he should be afraid of Billy-- maybe it’s the fever that makes him brave. 

“With a can of tuna,” Steve adds, dry. “And a cat.” 

He hears Tommy choke on a laugh. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of Billy’s. Stares him down as Billy’s jaw flexes. 

“A date,” he says. “With a cat.” 

“Thackary Binx,” Steve nods. “My  _ cat _ .” 

“Jesus,” Billy breathes, blinks, and then looks away to scrub a hand over his face, laughing soft and low into his palm. “Tommy. Get the car. We’ll drop him off for his  _ date _ .” 

Tommy’s already gone and out the door before Steve can think to protest. 

His head is sluggish. Slow. He wets his lips as Billy pushes to his feet. Twists around and lets his feet touch the hardwood in front of the couch. 

“I usually walk,” Steve finally says, even though he knows Billy knows that. 

“And risk you passing out on the street?” Billy asks, looking down at him. “Not likely.” 

Steve’s lips press thin. He blinks tired, scratchy eye up at Billy. He doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. But he’s gonna say it anyway. 

“You’re not supposed to know where I live,” Steve says.

They try not to break the illusion too much. They try their best to pretend.

But Steve knows today is a wash. It has been since Billy told him he could text his contact about being sick. Like calling out of work. 

Billy stares at him for a long, quiet moment. 

“Steve,” he says. “I’ve always known where you lived.” 

Steve’s throat closes up. It has nothing to do with being sick. 

“Right,” he manages, swallowing around the pit lodged in the hollow of his throat. “I guess you’re driving me, then.” 

Billy winces as Steve stands. “We can talk about this--” 

There’s a sharp rap of knuckles on the door. Cutting Billy off. Steve stares at him as his eyes squeeze shut and he breathes out heavy through his nose. 

“We can talk about this later,” Billy says, when his eyes open again. “Please.” 

Steve is too tired to do anything but nod. 

“Let me go change,” he says. 

“No,” Billy steps forward, reaching out, and then falters. “No. Just-- It’s fine. You can take them home.” 

“Okay,” Steve nods again. “I guess… let’s go?” 

“Let’s go.” 

Billy helps him into his coat at the front door. Drapes his own scarf around Steve’s neck and tucks it into place. Guides him out with a hand on his lower back. 

Steve lets him. Because he’s sick. Because it feels nice. Because Billy knows where he lives and Steve knows he should be scared by that. 

But he isn’t. 

***

Steve has never really slept well. Not since he was a kid. Not since his dad took his nightlight away for the first time. Not since the dark crept in and kept him up and ruined him in the horrid safety of night. Not since-- well. 

Not for a long while. 

It’s no different when he’s burning up with a fever. If anything, it’s actually worse. In fits and starts. In thrashing. In sheets wet with sweat and bunched up around his legs. 

But he does sleep. Through the night and well into the next day. Off and on, head swimming, body aching. 

He’s still feverish when his buzzer goes off. 

He staggers out of bed, in bargain bin boxers and a ratty shirt he got at a thrift shop. When he gets to the intercom by his door, he leans against the metal, eyes closed as he hits the speaker button. 

“Hello?” 

There’s a pause. Then, a staticy:  _ “Will you let me up?”  _

Steve knows that voice. Hears it once a week and dreams about it always. 

At least, he has for the last six months. 

He hits the button that unlocks the doors at the front of the building. Unlocks the chain on his front door and slides it open, just a crack. An invitation. One Steve doesn’t have to wait around to make personally. 

He pads over to his living space and plummets face first into the couch. 

While he’s laying there, breathing in the musty scent of old cotton, he sort of forgets who he just let into his home. Forgets until the door slides open and then shut again. 

And then there’s a hand on his back. Big and warm, radiating it, through the material of his shirt. Steve groans, back curving, and he turns his head over. 

Billy’s crouched there, next to him, frowning. Steve blinks a few times. 

“Shit,” he mumbles. “I haven’t made dinner.” 

Billy’s frown loosens, some, but his brows pinch. He presses that big, warm hand to Steve’s forehead. 

“You’re still a little warm,” he says. 

Steve doesn’t know what he’s talking about, for a minute. He pushes himself up on weak arms and turns over, blinking around the room. 

“This isn’t our place,” he says, tilting his head. “How are you--?” 

“Oh, pretty boy,” Billy sighs, rocking forward onto his knees, and reaching up to take his face between his hands. “Did you sleep at  _ all _ ?” 

“Oh,” Steve blinks and then remembers again. “Yeah, no. Still all…” 

He waves a hand toward his general head area. Billy barks out a laugh. 

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks. 

“Checking on you,” Billy says. “Taking care of you. If you’ll let me.” 

“This isn’t in the contract,” Steve says. 

Billy’s jaw winds tight, but he’s still touching Steve’s face so gently. Like Steve’s something precious he doesn’t want to break. 

“I don’t care,” Billy says, standing slow, pulling Steve up with him and taking his weight when Steve sways. “We’ll add it in later. Okay?” 

Steve’s head bobs. “Okay.” 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and back in bed,” Billy says, mouth pressing to Steve’s temple. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whumptober day 4: human shield

After a long, hot bath that Billy runs for him-- 

After taking the medicine Billy offers up, brought to him by some runner, maybe Tommy or Carol or whoever else works for him--

After sipping a mug of tea that soothes his throat and makes his head heavy--

After curling into Billy’s hold, in fresh sheets, Binx at the foot of the bed--

Steve falls asleep. Falls asleep hard and fast. 

Steve dreams. 

It starts out nice enough. He’s back home-- back in Hawkins. He’s with Nancy. With Nancy and Jonathan and Barb. They’re in his pool, at first, he thinks. But when he dives under the water and comes back up, they’re at the quarry. And when he does it again, he surfaces alone, cold, shivering in his bathtub. 

The water is red. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tight. He covers his face. He tries to breathe but it’s so  _ hard _ . Like there’s an arm around his neck, tightening, tightening,  _ tightening _ \-- 

He chokes. Sputters and gasps, feels something sharp dig into his side, eyes going wide. Staring down the barrel of a gun. Staring down at Nancy. At himself. At Nancy again. 

The body against his back is unyielding. The arm around his throat pulls tighter. The  _ bang _ of the gun, when it comes, makes his ears ring. 

There’s so much  _ blood _ . 

When he wakes, he wakes thrashing. Sobbing. 

“Shh,” a voice whispers steady and urgent in his ear. “Shh, Steve, hey-- hey, it’s okay.”

Someone’s holding him. Holding him tight, keeping his arms at his sides, plastered to his back and muttering in his ear. 

It’s Billy, Steve realizes, when he finally stops struggling. 

“Shh, baby, it’s okay.” Billy says. “I’ve got you. It’s just your fever breaking. It’s just a dream.” 

Steve hiccups out a sound, another sob, and then a laugh. He curls in on himself and Billy lets him. Hushes him and pets over his skin and holds him. 

If only Billy knew. 

When Steve settles, his breath evening back out, Billy finally loosens his grip. He gets a hand in Steve’s hair, pulling it away from his forehead. He turns Steve over onto his back, propping himself up so that he can hunt over Steve’s face, and Steve is too tired to hide anything. 

A hand curves over his jaw, thumb dragging against his cheek, and Steve leans into it. Seeks out that touch blindly. Reaches up and grasps Billy’s wrist to keep his hand there, to savor in the contact, to soak up what comfort he can before he can feel guilty for it. 

“Your fever’s finally down,” Billy says, after leaning in and pressing his mouth to Steve’s forehead. “You’re a normal kind of warm, now.” 

Steve hums. “That’s good. Did I hit you?” 

“No,” Billy says. “Almost, but I’ve got fast reflexes. Must’ve been some fever dream.” 

“Some dream,” Steve repeats, slurring a little. “Some nightmare.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Wanna talk about the contract?” 

Billy huffs. 

“You’re so stubborn,” he says. 

“I’m assuming that’s one of the reasons you fake-married me,” Steve replies. 

Billy’s nose scrunches up. He glances away, but doesn’t pull back. Stays close, like he wants to be close, just as badly as Steve wants him there. 

“Don’t-- trivialize it,” Billy says. “Don’t do that. Please.” 

Steve feels his breath catch and stall in his chest. He nods. Careful. Doesn’t want to dislodge Billy’s touch. 

“We should reassess the contract,” Billy says. “I want-- more days. And I want to take you out.” 

“And you want to buy me a new coat,” Steve adds. 

Billy finally meets his eyes again, grin easy and slow. “Glad you’re feeling well enough to crack wise, again.” 

“That’s one of the other reasons you married me,” Steve says. 

Steve feels the tension ripple through Billy. Feels the way he goes rigid above him. Watches the blue of Billy’s eyes as the move and hunt over Steve’s own face. But then Billy is sighing, going easy, and nodding. 

“One of many,” Billy says, leaning down, and Steve cranes his head to meet his mouth.

It feels real. Even if it is all pretend. 

***

The original contract Steve signed was due for reassessment in January. It’s November, now, and Billy’s paper pusher looks like she might spit fire when Billy takes him by the hand into the highrise where her law firm operates. 

It’s the same red head as the first time. Her suit is severe, her expression fierce, and her hair is twisted up and back into a tight bun. Her nails drum against the desktop in her office as Billy sprawls in the seat across from her, smile crooked and charming, and Steve thinks she looks  _ utterly _ unimpressed. There’s a name plate sitting in front of her computer that says  _ M. Mayfield _ . 

“You can’t show up unannounced,” she says. “In fact, you’re not supposed to show up  _ at all _ .” 

“Maxine--” 

She balls up a memo off the top of her desk and launches it right at Billy’s face. Steve blinks, shocked, as Billy lets it hit him and then fall harmlessly to the carpet between his feet. 

“I’m not  _ apart _ of your life anymore, Billy.” Maxine sneers. “Not  _ that one _ . You  _ know  _ better.” 

“I know,” Billy nods, and Steve is honestly, painfully surprised, considering what he suspects of Billy’s  _ life _ . “It’s just an update to the contract you drew up before. Totally legal and paid for. Nothing else.” 

“Oh, you mean the  _ prositution _ contract?” Maxine snaps, eyes darting at Steve, and Steve feels heat  _ rush _ to his face. “For your  _ companion _ ?” 

“ _ Max _ ,” Billy snaps back, just as firm, a hand smacking against her desk-- loud and sharp in a way that makes Maxine  _ and _ Steve jump-- and then Billy instantly sinks back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shit. I’m sorry.” 

Maxine-- or maybe just  _ Max _ \-- eyes Billy from behind her desk. Steve fidgets and that shrewd stare isn’t even directed at him. 

“Temper still giving you problems?” she asks. 

Billy groans behind his hand. “I just wanna update the contract.” 

Max purses her lips. “Fine. But next time you show up  _ here  _ without an appointment? I’m calling security. I’m not part of your family anymore. You can’t make demands like this.” 

“I know,” Billy nods with a grimace, dropping his hand. “Thank you. Charge whatever you need to my account.” 

“Oh, I will.” Max huffs, and then she’s turning her focus to her computer, pulling something up with a few clicks and keystrokes. “What are we revising?” 

“Frequency,” Billy says. “And a payment increase. And an addendum for gifts and… dates.” 

Max’s brows fly up, and her gaze goes to Steve. Steve tries not to shrink right back into his chair and  _ die _ . 

“I see,” Max says, slow, eyes still on Steve. “Anything you’d like to add?” 

Steve looks over at Billy and finds those blue eyes already on him. Expectant. Waiting. 

“The payment,” Steve says, a touch reluctant, drawing his gaze back to Max. “Don’t increase it. What I’m getting is fine.” 

“You live in a shit hole,” Billy insists. 

“I like my apartment,” Steve replies. 

Billy’s nostrils flare. “It’s not exactly  _ safe _ .” 

“Do I need to worry about being safe?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Billy says at the same time that Max goes: “Absolutely.” 

Steve glances between the two of them. They’re both looking at Steve like maybe he’s got something on his face that shouldn’t be there. 

So, he shrugs. “Post Tommy outside, then.” 

Max grunts, but sets to typing on her keyboard. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” 

“Shut up, Maxine.” 

For the first time since they’ve arrived, Max smiles. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm behind schedule. Hopefully I'll be dropping a bunch of chapters today; planning on combining some of the days, as well. 
> 
> Whumptober Day 5: gunpoint

As a general rule, Steve doesn't like guns. 

"I don't like guns," he says, even as Billy holds it out to him.

"It's just for emergencies," Billy says, as Tommy and Carol watch from by his front door. "Just in case something happens."

They've spent the last  _ three hours,  _ after they got back from signing their shiny new contract, heightening the security of his apartment. They put locks on his door and the big window leading to the fire escape in his bedroom. Billy gave him a tablet with access to security cameras that they installed on their own power system. Steve's  _ pretty sure _ he's got views of the hallway, the front entrance, the roof, and the  _ entire city block _ surrounding his apartment complex. 

"I don't want it," Steve says, folding his arms over his chest. 

Billy's face softens. "Listen, if you don't know how to use it, I can teach you--"

Before he can finish, Steve snatches the pistol out of his hand. He unloads the clip and strips it down in a few easy, memorized movements. 

When it clatters to the floor in pieces, Steve holds steady and still, because Tommy has his gun trained right on him. 

A cold sweat runs down his back, just from seeing it in his periphery, but he keeps his breath even. Stares Billy down until he raises a hand and signals Tommy to stand down. 

"I don't  _ like _ guns," Steve says. "That doesn't mean I don't know how to  _ use _ them."

Carol is, very poorly, trying to hide a laugh behind her hand. Tommy is blinking at him like an owl. 

"How did you--?"

"I'm from Small Town, Indiana," Steve says. "Everyone and their grandmother has a gun."

Billy stares. Eyes so blue and burning. 

He tilts his head, not looking away from Steve, and gestures to the door. 

"Get out," he says. 

Carol and Tommy don't need to be told twice. 

The door nearly slams shut behind them in their haste. Steve jerks, just a little, at the sound, nerves still thrumming, but he holds his ground as Billy steps closer. 

"I'm gonna kiss you," Billy tells him, toeing the pieces of the glock aside with the shiny tip of his dress shoes, and then he's got an arm around Steve's waist and fingers in his hair. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

When their mouths meet, it's nothing like the kisses they usually share, safe and sweet and easy in the walls of their pretend home. It's heat and teeth and tongue, Billy pressing and pressing like he wants to crawl right into Steve's skin. 

Steve clutches at Billy. At his bicep. At his hip. He feels his knees go weak. He feels light fucking headed. He doesn't think he's _ ever _ been kissed like this. 

Like he's something to be  _ devoured.  _

When Billy finally pulls back, Steve pants into the space between their mouths. Billy keeps him close, with a hand at his nape, and touches their foreheads together. 

"Sorry," Billy breathes. "That was-- probably not within the parameters of the contract."

Steve looks at him from under his lashes. Sees the flush on Billy's cheeks. The way his eyes are still shut. 

Steve gets it. His lips are still tingling. 

"It's fine," Steve says. "I'm wearing my ring. I think it counts."

Billy huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, but he doesn't open his eyes. 

"Who knew you'd get all hot and bothered watching me disarm a gun," Steve adds, just because he  _ can _ , because he wants to see what happens. 

Billy groans, fingers tightening over the back of Steve's neck. Steve wants to echo the sound. To chase it back into Billy's mouth. To go pliant and boneless and bare his throat to this man. 

"You--" Billy grunts, jaw flexing, and he pecks a chaste kiss to Steve's mouth. "Knew you were trouble the second I saw you."

"Me?" Steve balks. "You're the one giving me a  _ gun _ because I  _ might _ be in danger if you take me on a  _ date _ ."

Billy pulls back, eyes meeting Steve's. "Just a precaution. If the right person gets the wrong idea when you're out with me--"

"Or the wrong person gets the right idea," Steve mutters, finding one of Billy's hands and squeezing it. 

Billy's gaze is drawn to it. Their hands. He brings Steve's up between them, to his mouth, lips pressed to his knuckles. 

"Or-- that," he agrees, soft, and painfully earnest. "A burden of the way I work. The life I live."

"The life you live," Steve repeats, shuffling closer, fingers twitching as Billy turns his hand over to kiss his palm. "Paying someone to be your husband once a week, instead of just asking him out. Walking around with guards. Buying out buildings for your secret hideaway. Handing out guns."

Billy's grin, when he gives it, is rueful. Horrible. 

Steve wants to kiss it away. 

So he does. Leaning in and pressing their mouths together. Drawing it out from one kiss, to another, to another. 

"You're treading dangerous waters, pretty boy." Billy says, but he's feeding Steve kisses between his words. 

"Pretty sure I'm already in the deep end," Steve breathes. "Guess I should learn to swim."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 6: Dragged Away

It's the middle of December and Steve is in trouble. 

For the last month, he's been seeing Billy three times a week-- sometimes more. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he stays at their suite, playing house husband and sleeping in a bed that's far nicer than his own, tucked up against a man that could probably kill him in his sleep. He makes dinner, wears the clothes in the closet bought just for him, and keeps the wedding band on his left hand more often than not. On Fridays, Billy takes him out, Steve on his arm like some kind of trophy, to restaurants and theaters and parks. 

And every time, it gets a little harder to remember that it's all pretend. That he's playing an extravagant game of make believe. 

He only remembers on the in-between days, when he sleeps alone, cold and tired without Billy's warmth to ground him. Those nights, without a nose tucked behind his ear, or an arm around his waist, are the worst-- because the night terrors come heavy and chattering, clogging up his brain, until all that's left is the memory of a  _ bang  _ ringing in his ears and the smell of blood. 

He craves the safety of their suite. He craves the danger of Billy holding him close at night. He craves.

***

"The ballet?" Steve asks, frowning down at the tickets in his hands. "You wanna take me to the ballet?"

"It's  _ The Nutcracker _ ," Billy says. "It's tradition."

Sometimes Steve's not sure what Billy reminds him of more: the lynchpin of an intricate and underground crime organization or an awkward teen stumbling over himself to ask out his first date. 

Today is not one of those days. Today, Billy is dressed in all black, slacks pressed, wool overcoat tailored. Steve can see the holster for his gun tucked under his suit jacket as Billy pushes the edges of it back to tuck his hands into his pockets. His shirt is unbuttoned, halfway down his chest, and next to a silver medallion of St. Raphael, there are scars on his tan skin. 

When Steve nods and steps aside, back into his apartment, Billy gestures with two fingers-- gloves a fine black leather-- and a woman Steve's only seen a handful of times steps in before him as Billy shuts and locks Steve's apartment door. Steve can't help but think about what it would feel like to have those hands, gloves and all, on his skin. 

"The Bolshoi Ballet company," Steve reads off the tickets. "World tour. What are you, part of the Bratva?" 

The girl-- Heather, Steve knows-- pauses as she sets down garment boxes on his coffee table. Billy clicks his tongue, both hands back in his pockets. 

"You're pushing, again." Billy says. 

Steve holds up his left hand. "We're not married, yet, tonight. Don't ask, don't tell isn't in effect."

Billy sighs and rolls his eyes, shoulders rolling too. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar little red box, popping it open. 

Steve reaches out, ignoring the sound of tissue paper rustling behind him, and falters when Billy pulls the box back. 

"Don't joke about the Bratva, Steve." 

"Okay," Steve nods. "I won't joke about the Bratva."

Steve knows-- or, at least, he thinks he knows-- that Billy isn't part of a Russian crime syndicate. Crime, sure; that's been increasingly obvious. But not Russian. 

Billy hums with Steve's agreement. He plucks the ring from the box and steps close, sliding it into place on Steve's hand. 

He kisses it, when he's done. Reverent. Like an act of worship. 

"We need to get you dressed," Billy says. "Or we'll be late. Heather?"

Heather perks, ushering Steve away from Billy and over to the boxes. She tells him he has  _ options _ . She touches his hair-- it's getting too long-- and coos over the way it curls behind his ears. Steve feels a bit like a doll. 

Billy makes himself at home. Sits in Steve's dingy wingback he got at a yard sale, ankle over a knee, and watches as Heather holds up shirt after shirt against Steve's chest. He looks a bit like he rules the world, even here, in Steve's loft. Or at least rules the city. 

"The red," Billy says, after a while. 

And then Steve is being ushered back into his bedroom to put it on. 

When he returns, Heather is gone, but there's another, smaller box on the coffee table. Binx has taken up a perch in Billy's lap, and Billy is scratching him behind the ears as the damn thing purrs.

"Beautiful," Billy says, the moment he sees him, coaxing the cat off of his thighs and pushing to his feet to meet Steve at the center of the room. 

Hands go to his waist, sliding against silk, and then up his sides. Steve shudders. 

Billy leans in, kissing just under his jaw. 

"M'half tempted to ditch the ballet and keep you all to myself," he says.

Steve very nearly points out that Billy almost always  _ does  _ keep Steve to himself. He bites his tongue, instead. 

"The last touch," Billy says, when he finally pulls back, and gestures to the box. 

Inside, when Steve opens it, there's a pair of black leather gloves. Steve stares down at them as Billy smoothes his hand along Steve's spine. 

"I'll grab your coat."

***

The ballet is stunning. Steve's admittedly entranced, taken, by the view of delicate tulle and silk, by spins and spins and spins, by the swell of the orchestra as pointed feet glide against the stage from the private box Billy has them in. 

He's never been to the ballet. But he thinks he's a fan. 

When intermission comes, he follows Billy out into the wings off the viewing boxes, toward a bar set up for the guests who can afford it. Billy's pressing a glass of something sparkling into his hand when Tommy sidles up and mutters something in Billy's ear. 

Steve sips at his champagne as Billy's eyes move over the room. 

"Wait here, baby." Billy tells him. "I'll be right back."

Steve nods. Tommy and Billy step away and Steve lingers by the bar. 

He's alone for maybe a minute. And then there is a man, towering and broad, stepping in close. 

"That is not a man it is wise to be seen with," the man says, accent thick, and Steve blinks up at him. 

"Excuse me?"

"Your date,  _ myshka _ ," the man says. "Is dangerous." 

Steve feels his shoulders lock into place as he straightens out. "I don't think that's any of your business." 

The man laughs. "Little mouse, caught in a trap, and he doesn't even know. It is just a warning,  _ myshka _ ." 

He says it's a warning. Steve can't help but feel like it's a threat. 

"For who?" Steve asks, eyes narrowed, arms folding over his chest, glass dangling from his fingertips. "For me? Or him?"

The man's brows arch. "Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps you know of your trap and you do not care." 

" _ Perhaps _ ," Steve sneers, mustering a part of himself he left covered in blood and buried back home. "You can fuck off. Condescension isn't a good look."

"Not a mouse, then." The man says, voice deep and threaded with amusement. "But a pussycat." 

Steve's half a second from throwing the rest of his drink in this man's face. 

A hand at his lower back stills him. Billy's warm as he presses in close. 

"Grigori," Billy says, smile pleasant and sharp enough to flay a man alive. "I didn't know you would be here." 

"Ozerov loves the ballet," the man, Grigori, says as he straightens up from his lean against the bar. "He makes many donations. He has a standing invitation to the theatre when they are in the city."

Billy hums and nods, cordial, but Steve feels his fingers flex against his back. 

"I was just introducing myself to your partner--" 

"Husband," Steve says, before he can stop himself, like it's  _ important _ . "I'm his husband." 

Grigori's eyes widen. Steve lets Billy draw him closer. 

"Of course," Grigori nods, and then his dark eyes are meeting Billy's. "He's lively, isn't he, Hargrove? Your pretty, new husband."

_ Hargrove _ . The name rattles in his head. It's Billy's last name. It's  _ Steve's _ . At least it is here and now. 

"It's why I married him," Billy says, but his voice sounds clipped, like he's a second away from dropping polite platitudes. "It's nice to see you and yours are still invested in keeping up friendly relations."

"Yes," Grigori says, as the bell chimes, lights flashing, for people to return to their seats. "Until next time, Hargrove. See you soon,  _ koshechka _ ." 

The last is addressed to Steve. He feels something dripping, crawling, and cold slide up his spine. 

Steve knows a threat when he hears it. 

But Billy is nodding and saying goodbye. Billy is pulling Steve away. Ushering him back down the hall, toward where their box is. Practically dragging him, arm around his waist. 

When they get to the box, Tommy is there outside of it, and Billy-- Billy  _ passes him off _ . 

"Take him to the car," he hisses. 

"What--?" Steve startles, ripping his hand back when Tommy tries to take him by the wrist. "What the fuck, Billy?" 

"Have Carol swing around back," Billy adds, ignoring him. "Take him to the suite. No other stops."

"Yes, sir."

"Billy--"

But Tommy has him by the elbow. And Tommy, though short, is surprisingly strong. 

He hauls Steve away, toward the stairs, phone pressed to his ear. Billy watches them go, Steve knows, because he looks over his shoulder at him until they're in the stairwell and the door shuts behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 7: Isolation

It's three days before Steve sees Billy again. Two before Carol drops off a crate in the foyer with a hissing Thackery Binx inside and a scratch on her face. One before Steve gives up trying to leave, to go back to his own apartment, to argue with Tommy when he stops him from stepping out the door saying  _ it's for your safety.  _

Three days of otherwise being alone, kept locked in the suite like some kind of princess in a tower, only Binx for company. 

Steve barely sleeps. He spends his nights pacing. He spends his days dozing in and out on the couch. 

It's three days. Not three weeks or three months. Not three years. But it feels  _ wrong.  _ It feels  _ bad _ . Like he's being  _ punished  _ for something. 

So when Billy walks through the door, Steve is there, in one of the nice sweaters from the closet and the jeans that are probably far too expensive to have holes in the knees. Steve is there, peeling the socks off of his feet, balling them up and launching them at Billy's head. 

"Hey--" Billy dodges, ducks, holds up his hands. " _ Hey!" _

Steve yanks off his ring and throws that, too.

"I wanna dissolve the contract," Steve spits.

Billy goes still. He stands there, staring at Steve, and Steve's  _ livid.  _ He's  _ vibrating _ with it. 

"Steve--"

"Shut up," Steve snaps. "Do you think this is  _ okay _ ? Do you think you have the  _ right _ to  _ keep me here _ ?"

"No, Steve--" Billy steps closer, stopping when Steve steps back. "Baby, that wasn't-- I  _ promise _ that wasn't what--"

"You may  _ pay me _ to play doting husband," Steve says, throat tight, hands fisted at his sides. "But you don't  _ own me _ , Billy. You can't  _ do this. _ I'm not your  _ kept boy _ ."

"I know," Billy nods, throat working as he swallows. "I know. That's not what you are. That's not what you are to me, Steve." 

"Then what the  _ fuck _ , Billy?"

"Let me explain," Billy holds out his hands; pleading;  _ begging _ . " _ Please _ , let me explain."

Steve doesn’t want to let him explain. He doesn’t want to give him a chance to spin some pretty apology, some story that’s meant to make Steve feel  _ scared _ and  _ beholden _ . He knows how this works; he grew up with a powerful, dangerous man running his house and his life. He refuses to fall into the trap of another. 

But Billy’s eyes are big and blue and begging. He looks ready to drop to his knees. Steve thinks he’d let him. 

“Fine,” Steve says. “Explain. And it better be good or I’m walking out that door and never coming back.” 

Billy lets out a short, shaking breath. He nods, eyes falling shut, hands finally dropping. Steve watches him compose himself, gives him that at least, and then frowns when Billy shrugs out of his coat and pads over to the locked study. 

He pulls out a key and opens one of the double doors. He steps aside and gestures for Steve to go in. 

Steve hesitates. Not long. Because curiosity is much stronger than self-preservation. It always has been. 

When he steps in, he’s struck by just how  _ normal _ it looks. There’s a desk against the back wall, with a window that looks out across the city streets. The walls are lined with books and filing cabinets. There’s a  _ record player _ . A velvet goddamn settee with a low table in front of it, a small humidifier sitting on top, lined with cigars that are probably imported. 

On the desk, there’s a decanter of amber and two glasses. A computer system with two monitors. A mess of files. Two leather wingback chairs sit in front of it. 

“You’re a cliche,” Steve mumbles, mostly to himself, padding in and knocking his knuckles against one of the filing cabinets as he hears Billy bark out a tight laugh. “What is this, the 1950s?” 

“Paper files can’t get hacked,” Billy says, stepping in and shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Steve turns to face him, arms tight over his chest. “Why are you showing me this room?” 

With a sigh, Billy walks over to his desk. He loosens his tie as he goes-- he doesn’t wear them often, but he does wear them-- and stops to uncap the decanter and pour out two glasses of whatever is sitting in the crystal. 

He turns and holds one out for Steve. “You know who I am, right? What I do?” 

Steve shuffles close, avoiding Billy’s fingers when he takes the glass. “I know you carry a gun more often than not. That you come home-- here-- with bruised knuckles sometimes. That you dress nice and own empty buildings and have at least one high end contact.” 

When Billy lifts a brow, sipping at his drink and leaning back against the edge of his desk, Steve clears his throat. 

“Maxine Mayfield. Youngest partner at her law firm. I know how to use Google.” Steve adds. “I know that you probably have more. That you have a small army of people that work for you-- though, I’ve only met three-- and that your work isn’t…  _ conventional _ . But no. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you do.” 

“Imports,” Billy says. “That’s the short answer.” 

“And what’s the long one?” 

“I get things that people otherwise can’t. I take care of problems. I… clean up messes.” Billy says, and tilts his hand so that Steve can see that his knuckles are, in fact, bruised. “I used to be an enforcer. For a very long time. Sometimes that habit is hard to shake.” 

“And what are you, now?” 

“I run things,” Billy says. “My dad did, before I… took over. It makes me a target-- because a lot of people don’t like what I do. And a lot of people want to be the one doing it.” 

“Imports,” Steve repeats, maybe a little too mean. “Money laundering, priceless antiquities, drugs,  _ people _ \--” 

“Not people,” Billy cuts in, firm, eyes blazing in the dim light of the den. “But-- the other things. Yes.” 

“And that makes you a target.” 

“Yes,” Billy knocks back the rest of his drink. “And, unfortunately, as my  _ husband _ \-- it makes  _ you _ a target.” 

“What?” 

“The man, at the ballet, Grigori,” Billy pours himself another glass, turning his back to Steve as he talks. “He works in a business a lot like mine. And our business is all about power-- power and finding everyone else’s weaknesses.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. 

Billy faces him again, holding his glass up in the mockery of a cheer. “And you, Steve, are my weakness.” 

Steve’s throat goes tight. “We’re not actually married--” 

“He doesn’t know that,” Billy says. “And now he won’t considering the marriage certificate I convinced Max to doctor for me.” 

“Why would--?” Steve swallows once, then twice, shaking his head, stomach  _ dropping _ . “Why would you  _ do _ that?” 

“Because, Steve,” Billy says, setting his glass down on the desk behind him, and stepping forward. 

Crowding close. 

“Because I’ve spent six months pretending,” Billy adds, easing up until he’s nearly flush with Steve, until Steve can feel the heat of him radiate into the space between their bodies. “Because I’ve spent half a year  _ wanting _ .” 

Steve wets his lips; Billy’s eyes are drawn to the motion. “Wanting?” 

Those eyes, so blue they’re like a living flame, meet his. Steve shakes. He burns. 

“Wanting it to be  _ true _ ,” Billy says. 

Steve lets out a little breath. His stomach  _ swoops _ . His scalp tingles. He reaches up, sets his hand on Billy’s chest-- and pushes him back a step. 

“That’s a bullshit reason for locking me up here and throwing away the key.” 

Billy blinks at him. A rapid little flutter of his lashes. And then he  _ smiles _ . 

“No one fucking talks to me the way that you do.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve knocks back his own drink; his hands are shaking, he realizes, though he’s not exactly sure from what. “I’m special.” 

“You are,” Billy nods, hands jerking up, like he wants to touch Steve, and then faltering, like he knows he’s not allowed to right now. “You are special, Steve. And I’m sorry for locking you in here without telling you why. You painted a target on that pretty little head of yours when you told Grigori you were my husband, and I-- I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” 

“So, what? I have to stay here? Forever?” Steve scoffs. “It’s not gonna happen.” 

“I’m not asking you to,” Billy assures. “It was just-- I just needed to take care of some things. And I needed you safe while I did it.” 

“You can’t do that,” Steve shakes his head. “You can’t hide me away without telling me anything because you think someone’s going to hurt me for being with you-- especially when you’re the one that started this in the first place. That’s not fair.” 

“I know.” Billy says, and looks like he swallows back another excuse. “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

“I shouldn’t even give you a chance to keep that promise,” Steve says. It sounds weak, to his own ears, but Billy winces. “I should walk away. Right now.” 

“I know,” Billy nods and steps back. “And you can. If that’s what you want, you can. I won’t stop you.” 

Steve bites down, hard, on the inside of his cheek. Billy closes his eyes, like he’s waiting for some final blow. 

“It’s not what I want,” Steve says. 

“I can offer you whatever you need, Steve.” Billy says. “Whatever you want. Just-- just name it.” 

Steve’s ribs feel too tight. Like a cage, constricting and tightening, and holding the painful pounding of his heart inside of it. 

“You,” Steve says, and holds steady as Billy finally looks at him again. “I want you.” 

There’s a moment, a small one that stretches and aches and yawns open into eternity, where they don’t move. Maybe they don’t even breathe. 

And then Billy  _ moves _ . 

Eats up the space between them. Reaches out and up, hands on Steve’s face, and pulls him into a kiss. Bites past his lips and licks past his teeth. Backs Steve into the filing cabinet behind him, jarring it, making it rattle. 

Steve clutches at Billy’s hips, moan welling up from the back of his throat, and Billy swallows it down and chases it with a groan of his own. Billy’s a furnace, radiating heat into Steve, warming him from the outside in. There are fingers in his hair and a hand dragging down his neck, his shoulder, his arm-- snaking around and finding the small of his back to haul him closer. Steve arches, gasping against Billy’s lips-- 

A knock at the study’s double doors cuts between them. 

“Sir?” 

Tommy. 

Billy grunts, pulling back just enough to drop his head down against Steve’s chest. Steve, helplessly, laughs. 

“What?” Billy snaps, half muffled against the sweater Steve’s wearing. 

“We have to be downtown in twenty minutes,” Tommy says, through the door, probably knowing better than to open it. “Traffic won’t be good.” 

“Right,” Billy mutters, sighs, and then lifts his head. “I have to go.” 

“I know,” Steve nods.

“Will you--” Billy’s hand is so gentle, so kind on his jaw, tilting Steve’s head so he can kiss the corner of his mouth. “Stay. Please.” 

Steve shouldn’t. He  _ knows _ he shouldn’t. 

He nods anyways. 

“I’ll be waiting for you.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 8-13: Stab wound, shackled, unconscious, stitches, "don't move", adrenaline

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Steve stops outside of the door to Billy’s suite. Carol is standing by the elevator, mouth twisted and hair pulled back, a piece of bubble gum popping between her teeth. 

Steve turns to her, buttoning up his coat-- the new one, the one with dark wool and that cost more than Steve’s apartment each month, the one that’s warm and safe and smells too much like this place-- before sliding his gloves on. 

“I’m going to my apartment,” Steve says. “I need to pick some things up if I’m going to be staying here any longer.” 

“Give me a list,” Carol says, holding out a hand. “I’ll get it for you.” 

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “No. I haven’t been out-- I need the walk.” 

“You can’t  _ go _ out--” 

“If you’re so fucking worried, just come with me.” Steve says, staring her down, and Carol’s mouth snaps shut. “I get it-- that you’re under  _ orders _ or something-- but I’m not hiding away here. Billy knows that.” 

Carol’s mouth twists up into something like a sneer. “Oh,  _ does _ he?” 

“Yes,” Steve bobs his head, his throat working; he’s forgotten, after all this time, what it’s like to stand against the wishes of someone else. “If he tries to keep me here, he knows I’ll leave. So, you either let me pass, or you come with me.” 

Carol’s eyes flit. To the door behind Steve. To Steve. To the door again. 

She sighs. 

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” 

***

Nothing happens between the building that houses their suite and Steve’s apartment. There’s no big, black car that pulls up to the curb. No Russian thugs to pull him down an alleyway. No one waiting for him inside of his apartment. 

Nothing. 

Carol is on edge the entire time. She watches him from his doorway as he grabs a duffel full of things-- clothes, a few trinkets he’s acquired since his move, Binx’s things scattered across the kitchen, and the wallet with an ID he can’t use hidden under his lumpy mattress like that’s something that needs to be  _ safe _ . 

Really, it’s just so that he keeps  _ remembering _ . So he doesn’t make the same mistakes. 

Nothing happens on the way back, either. 

But when they arrive, Tommy is there looking a little too wide-eyed. He’s got blood down the front of his shirt. A bruise on his cheek. He sees Carol and Steve as they come in and breathes out heavy. 

“ _ Jesus _ ,” he breathes, and Steve watches in something like surprise as he gathers Carol close. 

He hadn’t really seen them as an  _ item _ , but he thinks maybe he should have. 

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, Carol.” Tommy mutters, against her hair, but she’s already checking him over with shaking hands, asking  _ what happened, what happened _ . “There was a fuckin’  _ rat _ . A fuckin’-- a  _ cop _ \-- I tried to-- I tried to--” 

“What  _ happened _ , Tommy?” 

“Figured it out too late,” Tommy says, brushing her hands away. “But the guy got spooked, anyway. I’m fine, Carol. It’s not my blood.” 

“Whose is it?” 

Tommy’s eyes dart to Steve. 

Steve feels something pit in his stomach. Something coiling and cold and dreadful. 

He shouldn’t-- he shouldn’t  _ care _ . But he does. He cares  _ so much _ . 

“He’s upstairs,” Tommy says, slumping in the chair by the heavy metal door. “Doc’s with him.” 

Steve’s moving before he even realizes. Feet leading him forward, a pull below his navel, guiding him. Heart pounding in his ears. That cold sweat down his fucking back. 

He doesn’t bother with the elevator. Takes the stairs two at a time. Drops his duffel halfway up. When he gets to the door, he fumbles; barely gets the keycard out to unlock the damn thing. When he gets inside, he can smell blood. 

It’s pervasive. Heavy. Metallic and awful, leaving something hot and acidic on the back of his tongue. 

The double doors to the study are wide open. 

Steve stumbles a little as he rounds the corner. Stops in the doorway, cold from the winter outside still clinging to him, skin flush and breath short. 

On the couch, a glass dangling from his fingertips, Billy sits with an elbow on his knee and the other hand in an old man’s lap. He looks up, eyes tired, and pauses at the sight of Steve standing there. 

There’s gauze taped to his left side; his shirt is a rumpled mess on the floor. Steve saw him, just a few hours ago, pristine and with bruised knuckles. Now, there’s a yellowing at his jaw, there’s bloody gauze at his ribs, and stitches being threaded through his left hand. He looks  _ tired _ . 

He looks  _ relieved.  _

“Steve--” he says, jerking, like he might try and get up. 

The man stitching the hole in his hand closed clicks his tongue. “Don’t move. We’re almost done.” 

By all accounts, Steve knows that the man sitting in front of him is a monster. There’s blood on his shirt and a gun on the settee next to him. He’s bleeding and bruised. He probably killed whoever did it--  _ a rat, a cop,  _ Tommy’s words ring in his ears-- and he thinks briefly of Hopper and then rapidly of the man who kissed him like he was worth something, sitting there and staring at Steve like he didn’t expect to ever see him again. 

“I thought you left,” Billy says. 

“I went to get some things,” Steve replies; he doesn’t recognize his own voice, not in the warm light of this room and a predator looking at him like he’s salvation and not prey. “I took Carol with me.” 

Billy nods, stiff. 

“I left Binx here,” Steve says, not really sure  _ why _ he’s saying it, until: “I figured you’d put two and two together. I wouldn’t leave my cat.” 

_ I wouldn’t leave you, _ he doesn’t say, because he can’t say it, because he can’t think it’s true, but Billy seems to hear it anyway. 

His mouth turns up at the edges. He sips at the drink in his hand. His eyes don’t leave Steve, like he’s drinking him up instead. 

There’s the rattle of metal on glass. Steve’s eyes narrow at the sight of a pair of handcuffs, half done, dangling from Billy’s wrist. 

He shouldn’t ask. He’s not supposed to. 

“Meeting didn’t go well?” 

Billy barks out a laugh and then winces. “There was an unexpected guest.” 

“Right,” Steve wets his lips. 

The man stitching Billy’s hand cuts the cord. He makes quick work of wrapping Billy’s hand up. He stands. 

“Thanks, doc.” Billy says, finally pulling his gaze away from Steve. “I owe you.” 

“No more than you usually do,” the man says, and then pulls out dressings from the back at his feet, eyes finding Steve’s. “You know how to redress wounds?” 

Billy stiffens. “He doesn’t--” 

“Yes,” Steve nods. “I can handle it.” 

The man nods and sets the spare bandages on Billy’s desk. He pads over and holds out a card to Steve, with silvery lettering, and offers a kind smile.  _ Doctor Owens _ and a phone number. 

“If he catches fever, call me. Likelihood of infection is low,” Dr. Owens says, “but always a possibility. There’s no nerve damage. He should be fine.” 

“Thank you,” Steve nods. 

“Anytime,” Dr. Owens says, and then he’s moving by and letting himself out the door. 

When they’re alone, in the warm light of the den, Billy staring at Steve, Steve finally feels something unwind within him. He feels hot; like  _ he’s  _ the one catching a fever. He shrugs out of his coat and pulls off his gloves and tosses them on one of Billy’s chairs as he makes his way over. 

He sits, carefully, on the settee next to Billy. 

“Steve--” 

“He gave you drugs, didn’t he?” Steve asks, elbows on his knees, fingers threading in front of himself, clutching at his own hands until his knuckles bleach. “Should you be drinking?” 

Billy sighs. “Steve--” 

“You should probably be in bed,” Steve adds. “Not sitting here, drinking, like you haven’t been--” 

“ _ Steve _ ,” Billy says, bandaged hand coming to rest over both of Steve’s. 

It’s crazy. Just a few hours ago, Steve was livid at Billy. Still is, really, if he lets himself think about it. He’s trying to not let himself think about it. 

It’s crazy. Billy just told him what he does a few hours ago. Told him what he  _ is _ . Steve had known, but-- it hadn’t seemed real, though, not really. Not until now. 

“It’s crazy,” Steve mutters. “This is crazy.” 

Billy’s fingers tighten over his. “You’re wearing the wedding ring.” 

Steve pulls his hands from under Billy’s touch. “You should get to bed.” 

“Come with me?” 

Steve finally looks at him, again. He blinks, wets his lips, sighs. Billy’s eyes are so blue. 

“Where else would I go?” 

Billy’s gaze burns over his face. Hunts over it. He sways forward, leans in toward Steve, and then hisses-- hand going to his side. 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve huffs. “Bed.” 

He gets up and makes quick work of getting Billy up, too. Slides his arm around Billy’s waist and pulls him close; lets Billy lean into his side as they shuffle across the suite toward the bedroom. 

It’s dark in there. The only light comes through the window, sheer curtains drawn, and as Steve settles Billy on the edge of the bed, he realizes this is his life, now. This is what he’s chosen. 

A dangerous man with dangerous eyes. 

“Stay here,” Steve says. 

Billy nods. 

Steve goes to the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door, doesn’t turn on the light, doesn’t think he could take it. Looking at himself in the mirror. Knowing what he knows, that even though this is terrifying, he wants it. 

He splashes water on his face and then digs around in one of the drawers; finds bobby pins that neither of them use. There’s a million things in this suite that neither of them use. Things for men and things for women. Sometimes Steve thinks they’re all for him. Sometimes he thinks he’s not the first one who has been here, living like this, with Billy. 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. 

He pads back out and kneels down in front of Billy, between the spread of his knees. In the dark, he takes Billy’s uninjured hand, pulls the bobby pin apart with his teeth and bites off the plastic head at one end. 

It’s been a while so it takes a while, but he works the handcuffs off of Billy’s wrist. It unlatches with a soft  _ click.  _ Billy stares at him. 

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Steve says. 

Before Billy can ask, before he can voice the questions Steve sees in those blue eyes, Binx makes a noise from the door. Pads in and brushes along Billy’s ankle with a purr. 

“Bed,” Steve says, pulling Billy’s shoes off. “You need to sleep. You’re hurt.” 

“Sleep with me,” Billy says. 

Steve sighs and toes off his own shoes as Billy situates himself under the covers. He climbs in with him and presses close. Presses his head over Billy’s heart. 

Fingers find his hair. Idle. Steve closes his eyes and savors it. 

“Stay with me,” Billy says, a breath, a whisper, a barely there plea that he’s been asking of Steve for sixth months. 

Steve doesn’t reply. He just holds Billy and lets Billy hold him. He stares out the window. He listens as Binx mews from the floor and then hops onto the foot of the bed. He thinks of gunfire and burning rubber and places he can’t run to-- not anymore. 

There are fingers in his hair. Still and settled. Billy’s asleep. 

Steve closes his eyes. 

“Where else would I go?” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Day 14-16: tear-stained, scars, pinned down

Steve spends the next five days nursing Billy back to health. Making him stay in bed unless it’s necessary for him to get up. Sending Tommy and Carol away outside of dropping off groceries and prescription painkillers and extra first aid shit. Letting Billy work, from the mess of sheets, on his phone and not much else. 

Billy doesn’t seem to mind. Smiles every time Steve brings him food. Every time Steve redresses his wounds-- the one in his hand is the worst, straight through his palm; while the one in his side seems more like a graze, like someone tried to stab him and failed-- even though there’s a curiosity there too, behind his bright eyes. Every time Steve crawls into bed with him, reading or playing with Binx, as Billy texts and emails and makes calls on his phone. 

It’s like, now that Steve’s seen him bleeding, Billy doesn’t feel the need to hide anymore. 

Steve’s not exactly sure how he feels about it. About the fact that Billy will lean against his shoulder and hold his hand and talk on the phone to someone about  _ fixing the mess they made _ . About the fact that Billy will lace his fingers with Steve’s and bring it up and kiss his knuckles, the gold ring, like they’re actually  _ married.  _

Either way, Steve’s feeling cabin fever on the sixth night. He makes dinner that night; makes the noodles from scratch, the way his nonna taught him when he was young and happy, and tries not to flinch when Billy shuffles up behind him as evening bleeds into night. 

“Chicken soup?” Billy asks. 

“Egg noodles,” Steve replies. “Would’ve gone more traditional, but you don’t have what I need here.” 

Billy grunts, hands gentle at Steve’s waist, mouth pressing to his shoulder. “I could get it for you.” 

“I’d rather get it myself,” Steve says. 

Billy makes a soft sound. He gets a hand in Steve’s hair, fingers kneading and working over his scalp until Steve’s eyes flutter shut, flour on his shirt and his hands. 

“You’ve been holed up with me too long,” Billy says, and Steve  _ shakes _ with how easy Billy reads him. “Going stir crazy, baby?” 

“A bit,” Steve admits. 

“Shopping will help?” 

“Anything will help.”

Steve feels Billy’s fingers press and pull. He turns with them, with their silent question, and meets Billy’s eyes. 

“You don’t have a job, outside of this one,” Billy says, almost like a question. 

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Just-- I’m just this. Just--” 

Steve’s breath catches. He thinks of Nancy, of how she would purse her lips and tell him this is  _ unhealthy _ . That this is  _ dangerous _ . He thinks of Nancy, and a gun, and blood on his face. 

He thinks Nancy doesn’t have room to talk. 

“Just yours,” Steve says. 

Billy stares at him, long and hard, and then leans up. Has to lean up, because Steve’s taller, especially without the shiny black shoes Billy usually has to add an inch, and kisses the corner of his mouth. 

It takes Steve’s breath. These chaste kisses. The soft touches. Billy holding his hand while he works. Billy curling up around him in the cold of night. 

He  _ wants _ and is terrified of that want. 

“You’re a mess, baby.” Billy tells him as he leans back and looks between them. “You wanna get cleaned up? Eat at the table?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, mostly because he can’t be here, in Billy’s arms and under his eyes, like this. “Don’t let the soup boil over.” 

***

Dinner goes well. Billy tells him it’s good and tells him that Steve’s free to come and go as he pleases now that Billy’s not going to bleed out and tells him that he’ll take Steve out, if he wants, when they next get the chance. 

Well, he doesn’t  _ tell _ Steve he’ll take him out. He asks. Like a proper date. 

Steve sips his wine and tastes relief and tries not to weep at the relief that Billy  _ asked _ . That this isn’t what he fears it will become. At least not yet. 

When they go to bed, showered separately and dried off and curled up in sleep clothes, Steve thinks he will sleep restfully the way he always seems to with Billy at his side. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he dreams of an arm around his throat. Of a voice in his ear. Of Nancy pointing a gun at him. Of Nancy pulling the trigger. Of the warmth of blood and the weight of a body. 

He wakes biting back tears. Wakes stifling his sobs into his hands. Wakes and crawls from the warmth of the bed, stumbles into the bathroom, and turns on all the lights because it’s too dark without them. 

He’s too hot. His throat hurts and his head hurts and there’s a whine dying in his chest. He pulls his shirt up, over his head, throwing it aside as he cranks on the sink and tries to choke down all the  _ regret _ . 

Fingertips, rough from a life that has been rough, trail against his back. Steve jerks, eyes bloodshot as they meet Billy’s in the mirror. But Billy’s not looking at him-- he’s looking at Steve’s back, at the scars that crisscross over his spine.

He left the door open. He didn’t mean to leave the door open. 

“Who did this?” Billy asks, barely whispering.

Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek and tastes copper. 

“Baby,” Billy says, and those dangerous eyes are on his. “Who did this?” 

Steve shudders. His gaze strays down. 

“You’re not the first powerful man I’ve ever met,” Steve says. “You’re not the first dangerous one, either.” 

Billy grunts, like Steve’s hit him. But Steve’s hands are braced and dripping on the edge of the sink, clutching. Billy’s fingertips ease down his spine. 

“Who?” Billy asks. 

Steve’s eyes fall shut. “You don’t know?” 

“I know your name,” Billy says. “I know you’re running. I know you’re beautiful.”

Steve hisses. Billy leans closer and kisses at a long scar he knows drags down his right shoulder blade. 

“I know you say you’re from Indiana, but there’s no Steve Carbonell from Indiana.” Billy bites at his skin and grips at his hips. “I know you were lost-- and I found you.” 

Steve shakes his head. “I wasn’t lost. I was hiding.” 

“From who?” 

“I--” Steve’s throat works; gunfire and burning rubber and Hopper telling him to  _ run _ . “From everyone.” 

Billy clicks his tongue and kisses at his throat. “Don’t hide from  _ me.”  _

Laughing, Steve presses back into his heat, and feels Billy’s hands move. Feels them draw over his pale belly and across his chest until Billy’s wrapped around him. 

“As if I could,” Steve says. “As if you’d let me. I know men like you. I grew up with men like you.” 

Billy holds him just a little tighter. “I’d let you. But I’m asking you  _ not to.”  _

Steve’s relief chokes him. He wants to weep. 

“Harrington,” Steve breathes. “Carbonell is my mother’s maiden name. I took it the night my father died.” 

“Harrington,” Billy repeats, soft and sweet, lips at the shell of his ear. “Steve Harrington.” 

Steve shakes his head. “Steve Hargrove.” 

Billy’s fingers curl in, hard enough to hurt, and it’s just what Steve needs. 

“How many more are there?” Billy asks, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder. “How many did he give you?” 

“A dozen. A hundred. More.” Steve says, shrugging. “You can’t see them all.” 

“You never can,” Billy kisses under his ear. “Your father?” 

Steve swallows. He can’t say it. He nods. 

“A powerful man. A dangerous one.” Billy hums, thumb dragging idly back and forth under Steve’s navel. “A  _ stupid _ one.” 

Steve wants to argue, but it’s a gut reaction. He doesn’t  _ actually _ want to. 

“My dad was stupid, too.” Billy confesses, and Steve finally opens his eyes and meets Billy’s in the mirror. “You’re scared that I am.” 

“Yes,” Steve confesses. 

“I’m not,” Billy assures him, without any anger or defense, with earnest eyes and gentle hands. “Let me prove it.” 

Steve’s pulse kicks in his throat. “How?” 

Billy’s grin, when he gives it, is wide and bright and sharp. Dangerous. Powerful. Not stupid. 

“Stupid men think being on your knees is a weakness,” Billy tells him. “I know better.” 

And then he’s pushing Steve hips flush to the counter. Then he’s sliding down to his knees behind Steve. Then he’s pulling Steve’s pants and underwear down to bunch at his thighs. Then he’s kissing the swell of his ass as Steve shudders and braces his hands against the mirror. 

Holding Steve in place. Unyielding and kind. Kissing across pale skin and biting and groaning. 

They’ve never done this. They’ve never done any of this. Just kissing. Just holding each other. Just pretending. 

This-- This is new. A step toward something new. 

Steve wants it. He  _ wants it.  _

“Stupid men don’t know how to treat people like people,” Billy says, kissing at the dimples in Steve’s lower back. “Stupid men break what they cherish, so that no one else can enjoy it.” 

Steve swallows and swallows. His eyes burn. 

“Stupid men don’t get on their knees. They don’t realize there’s joy in giving instead of taking. Stupid men don’t get to their knees because stupid men don’t know how good it is, down here, where I can give you  _ everything _ ,” Billy breathes and Steve jerks as he feels the first pass of his tongue, scalding and wet and strong. “I’m powerful. I’m dangerous. But I’m not stupid. Let me show you.” 

“Please,” Steve gasps, panting, and he doesn’t remember how he got so breathless. “Please, Billy.” 

“I’ll give you everything,” Billy promises, and they sound honest and true and they break Steve’s heart. “I’ll share everything with you, Steve. The power. The danger. It’s all yours.” 

“ _ Please _ \--” 

Billy presses in close and holds Steve steady. He licks and kisses and thrusts and groans. He leaves Steve’s head  _ spinning.  _

Billy’s grip is firm. His fingers dig in at Steve’s hips and his thighs and hold him steady; still. His thumbs spread him open so that he can fuck his tongue  _ deeper _ . Steve rocks with it, gasping, skin burning. His fingers curl in at the edges of the mirror, to find purchase, to find something other than the agonizing delight of Billy’s tongue. 

He’s helpless to it. To the pleasure and the heat. It’s so cold out and Billy is always so warm. His mouth, even more so. 

Steve shouts when he cums. When Billy curls his tongue just right and eases his thumb in with it. As Billy,  _ on his knees _ , brings Steve to the edge and then chases him over it. 

He’s slumped over the sink, panting and dizzy. Billy kisses up his spine and rubs at his hips as he climbs back to his feet. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, baby.” Billy says. “Then, back to bed.” 

“Okay,” Steve nods, hapless and helpless to this man that wants him and that he wants so badly. “Okay.” 


	10. Epilogue

Steve wakes to dim blue light pouring in through the window. It streams across the bed in a cool streak, a river of pale light, filtered through clouds and sheer curtains. 

Steve doesn’t so much as stir as he does blink awake slowly. One moment, he is warm and asleep; the next, he is warm and awake, Billy Hargrove curled against his back, hand splayed over Steve’s stomach, nose tucked at his nape. 

It’s a sweet way to wake. Calm and cool and curled under the sheets with a man that promised him the world the night before. 

And in the soft light of morning, there is none of the fear from the days, the weeks, the months before. None of the trepidation-- about the past, about the contract, about the wedding band sitting on his ring finger like a constant reminder-- exists here, between them, when the day has yet to fully begin. 

But then Billy moves. Fingers spread over Steve’s stomach, lips press to the back of his neck, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath. 

Billy goes still. 

“You awake, baby?” 

Steve is tempted, very tempted, to lie. But he nods and lets his hand find Billy’s over his abdomen. Laces their fingers together. Feels Billy’s ring and his own. 

He wants to pretend, he decides. He wants to pretend for forever that this is his life. That this is what he will have, every morning, until the day he dies. That Billy and he are truly  _ til death do they part  _ wedded and  _ happy.  _

So, he squeezes at Billy’s hand and draws it up, up his chest-- to his heart-- to his mouth-- and presses his lips to flesh warmed metal. Feels Billy’s fingers twitch in his own. Feels Billy shudder. 

_ “Baby,”  _ Billy sighs, trailing kisses along the side of his throat, shuffling closer under the sheets, and Steve can feel him, how hard he is, nestled against the curve of his ass.  _ “Sweetheart.”  _

Steve closes his eyes. Savors the way Billy calls him sweet nothings. The way Billy presses them to his skin like that’s what Steve really is to him. That he’s his baby. His sweetheart. His one and only. 

Steve wants to pretend. 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, turning Billy’s hand over and kissing along his palm. “Yes, Billy,  _ please.”  _

Billy grunts, like maybe Steve’s hit him, but all Steve is doing is kissing his hand over the bandages and pressing back against Billy’s chest. 

Billy pulls his hand away from Steve’s loose grip. Shifts, up further on the bed, and then he’s pulling Steve around to look at him. Taking Steve’s jaw in his hand, blue eyes bright even in the dim light, hunting over Steve’s face. 

“Baby,” Billy says, throat working, and Steve has never seen him look so fucking vulnerable-- so hopeful-- not Big Bad Billy Hargrove. “You gotta-- You gotta say it. You gotta  _ tell me--”  _

“I want it,” Steve says, on his back, Billy flush against his side, and he reaches up to curl his fingers loose around Billy’s wrist, to keep his hand cradling Steve’s jaw. “I want you. Please.” 

Billy groans, gaze slipping down. His thumb drags over Steve’s lower lip. Steve lets his mouth fall open, lets that thumb past the heat of his lips to the soft pink within. Billy groans again. 

“You sure, Harrington?” Billy asks. 

Steve nearly flinches.  _ “Hargrove.  _ My last name is Hargrove.”

Billy closes his eyes. Like just hearing that is too much. Like Steve is pushing him, further than what he’s capable of handling, and Steve just wants to push him  _ more.  _

“My last name is Hargrove. You made sure of that,” Steve says. “And I want my  _ husband  _ to  _ fuck me.”  _

Billy breaks. Surges forward as he hauls Steve close, hand curling at the back of his neck, their mouths crashing together with all of the same heat that Steve tasted that night he threatened to leave and never come back. 

Steve’s hands find Billy’s warmth under the sheets. Find the ladder of his ribs, right hand catching on gauze plastered to Billy’s side, and strokes around to let his fingers dig in at Billy’s back. 

They press close on that bed, covered in blue, mouths open and wet and warm. Steve feels something in his chest crack open, and when it wells up into his throat, it tastes like longing. 

He pushes, something pleasant like surprise tingling across his scalp and his at his fingertips and toes when Billy  _ lets him.  _ When Billy rolls over, onto his back, and lets Steve climb into his lap. Lets Steve curl down over him, refusing to break away from the heat of Billy’s mouth on his own, hands trailing up over his chest. 

Billy’s still got him by the back of his neck. Has his other hand creeping up over Steve’s thigh, scorching fingermarks through his pajamas, until he reaches his hip and grips tight. Presses his thumb at the crease of his leg, until it throbs, and Steve’s moan gets lost against the deft flick of Billy’s tongue sliding against his own. Gets lost in the echo of Billy’s own groan, welling up and filling Steve’s chest with its eager yearning. 

“Fuck,” Billy hisses, breaking away, palming at the base of Steve’s skull as Steve pants into his face. “Fuck, baby. You’ve no idea. No idea how much I’ve wanted you.” 

Steve’s breath stalls. He sees nothing but honesty in Billy’s face-- and, more than that, he  _ wants  _ to believe that Billy has wanted him as much as Steve has wanted Billy. 

He nods, throat working, shuffling a little until the sheets are bunched around his ankles and Billy’s thighs. Until his knees are pressing into the mattress at either side of Billy’s hips, their bodies shifting closer and closer, finding the places where they might fit together. 

“I’ve… I’ve wanted this, too.” Steve confesses. “I wanted-- I wanted  _ you.”  _

Billy’s face softens, impossibly, and his hand curves around to cup his cheek. Steve leans blindly, hopelessly and hopefully, into it. Billy’s thumb drag under his eye. 

“All you had to do was ask, pretty boy.” Billy says, rough and low, grip firming on Steve’s hip. “All you have to do is ask, and it’s yours. Since the first moment I saw you-- knew I’d give you anything.” 

“This,” Steve says, before he can overthink it. “You. Give me-- Give me  _ you.  _ Show me.  _ Show  _ me how much you want me.” 

Billy grunts, curving up despite any pull it might give to the still healing wound at his side. Curving up and catching Steve’s mouth again, licking past his teeth, pressing in wherever Steve will make space for him. Like he wants to slot right into Steve’s empty places and make himself at home. 

Steve wants to let him. 

Steve is  _ going  _ to let him. 

It all blurs, a little, in the morning light. Too hazy, too warm between them and cold everywhere else, for it all to be totally clear. For it to make any linear sense. 

To be fair, they don’t make much of a linear sense. Never have gone in sequence. Married before they were together. Together before they were married again. Slipping between the sheets only after nearly breaking apart more than once. 

It’s blurry. Hazy. 

But Steve knows that Billy feels good. That his hands are big and everywhere. That his mouth never strays far from Steve’s own, or Steve’s skin, or Steve’s ear to mutter sweet somethings-- because they’re not  _ nothings--  _ until Steve is bare and rocking in Billy’s lap, sheets long since shoved to the floor so that there is only them and skin and skin and skin. 

Billy’s got his back against the headboard before he gets Steve open. Sitting back, letting Steve set the pace, like he isn’t the most powerful man on the east coast. Like Steve has more than just Billy’s cock in the palm of his hand as he strokes and shifts and slides slow kisses against Billy’s jaw. 

Then, Billy’s fingers are slick and slipping into him. Too much lube, too much everything, thick and perfect and splitting Steve right open as Steve ruts and rides against his hand. 

It blurs. Like ink on a canvas-- blue, so blue, like Billy’s eyes-- and Steve is seeing  _ stars.  _

It’s been too long since someone has touched him like this. Since he’s let someone touch him. Since he’s  _ wanted  _ someone to touch him. 

But he wants Billy. Doesn’t think he’ll ever  _ stop  _ wanting Billy. 

“More,” Steve pants in the space between their mouths, begging for everything and all of it, all the things Billy keeps promising.  _ “More, more, more.”  _

“Anything,” Billy replies, working him open, making a place for himself inside of Steve as if there isn’t one already there, waiting and aching, just for Billy. “Everything, baby.” 

Steve is already nodding before Billy even gets a condom on. Already shuffling in on his knees, thighs spread, hands shaking. Flush and desperate and so wanting. Like there’s an empty chasm in him that only Billy can fill up. 

It helps that Billy’s just as eager. That he won’t stop  _ touching  _ Steve. Like he’s afraid Steve will change his mind. Run away. Tell him to stop. 

As if Steve could ever give this up. 

They’re flush, chest to chest, when Billy finally slides home into him. Steve’s got one hand clutching at Billy’s shoulder, the other buried in the curls of his hair. Billy’s fingers are splayed across Steve’s spine, Steve’s scars, cradling him close. Eyes wide and so blue on Steve’s face as Steve sinks down, takes him in, until they are more than two people meeting in the middle. Until they’ve slipped their broken pieces together into something  _ whole.  _

They don’t move, when Billy’s finally in him, Steve impaled down on his cock in his lap. Their foreheads knock together, their breaths slipping unsteady between them, just clinging to the heat of each other’s skin. 

Steve’s shaking, he realizes. Trembling to pieces. 

“Shh,” Billy hushes him, kissing his cheek, his nose, his chin. “I got you. You’re right here, with me. Never gonna let you go, baby.” 

Steve  _ whines.  _ His hips give a little jump, lurching forward, bringing Billy that much  _ closer.  _ Taking Billy that much  _ deeper.  _

Billy bares his teeth around a long, low sound. Digs his fingers in at Steve’s back and presses his face in at Steve’s throat. Presses  _ baby, baby, baby  _ into his skin, like a tattoo. Like a brand. Searing it across his nerves until Steve can’t help but  _ move.  _

It starts slow. Slow and languid, like syrup slipping and sliding, thick and warm. Little rolls of Steve’s hips, meeting the small jerks of Billy’s pelvis rocking up to meet him. Sweat and slick easing the way as they build up a rhythm. 

It’s not surprising that, just like everything else, this is easy. 

That they fit so perfectly together. That Billy scratches that impossible itch inside of Steve, until Steve is gasping for breath and riding down in earnest, muscles pulling taut and twitching as they push each other toward their own ends. 

Steve gets there first. 

It shocks through him, lighting him up from within, until he’s crying out into the quiet of the room. Until he’s spilling out between him and Billy is growling out some kind of praise and fucking up into him. Until he’s babbling out pleas to the only one who will listen, Billy shoving forward until Steve is on his back, tears burning at his eyes as Billy takes and takes and gives and  _ gives.  _ Until Billy is finding his own release, pressed into the heat of Steve’s body, cradling him close like-- even if Steve decides  _ now  _ is when he’ll break apart completely-- Billy will be there to catch all the pieces. 

Steve, in his bliss, lets him. 

*

There’s a faint, gold hue to Billy’s skin when the sun hits it. Steve wants to taste it, so he leans forward, naked on their bed, and drags his tongue across Billy’s shoulder-- finds the salt of the sea, there. 

“You taste like California,” Steve mutters. 

Billy snorts, hand over Steve’s hip, thumb dragging back and forth. “We need to shower.” 

With a hum, Steve tucks closer. “Sure it’s worth it?” 

Something bright burns in Billy’s eyes. “Why? You gonna get me dirty again, baby?” 

“Maybe,” Steve breathes. “That a problem?” 

“Fuck no,” Billy says, leaning back with a hand under his head, watching as Steve tucks in at his side, face pressing in against his ribs. “I’m an invalid, remember? Stuck on bed rest. Lots of it.” 

Steve offers up a crooked smile. It falters only when Billy’s fingers find one of the long scars against his back. 

He doesn’t say anything, but Steve can see it on his face. The curiosity. The need to know burning in his eyes. 

“You wanna talk about it,” Steve says. 

It’s not a question. 

He knew that Billy would want to know. Knew that he’d ask, the second Steve let him, and maybe that’s part of why he wanted to feel Billy as close as he could before he had to spill his guts to him. 

Steve shudders. Shutters. 

“Only if you want to, baby.” Billy says. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to.” 

“Then you don’t ever have to.” 

Steve squints up at him. 

With a half laugh of a thing, Billy holds up a hand. “Seriously. I’m not gonna press. I wanna know, but that’s yours. It’s yours and you don’t have to share it.” 

For a second, Steve takes comfort in that. Finds a relief in it. 

Finds it freeing, in a way, that he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

“Isn’t that the whole point of being married? Sharing the burden?” Steve asks, quiet, and Billy’s blue eyes take on that warm, soft hue as he thumbs at the long scar between his shoulder blades. “We  _ are  _ legally wed, aren’t we? Even if it’s fake?” 

“A forged marriage certificate is still forged,” Billy says, just as soft as his touch and his eyes. “Still fake.” 

“What if…” Steve wets his lips. “What if I don’t  _ want  _ it to be fake?” 

Billy’s face does something Steve can’t put words to. He just knows that, even still sticky and a little sweaty, Billy sinks down on the bed to kiss him and Steve has never been more  _ content.  _

“Then it’s real,” Billy says. 

Steve smiles against his mouth and kisses him again. 

Draws it out. Lets it linger. Until he has no choice but to pull back for a breath. 

“My dad-- My dad wasn’t a good man,” Steve confesses into the small space between them, trusting it to keep his secrets safe. “He was a great businessman, but not a good man.” 

“He hurt you.” 

“Yes,” Steve bobs his head, swallows, and presses on. “Hurt me until I decided I had enough of hurting. Tried to get away. It, uh. It didn’t work.” 

Billy cradles Steve’s cheek in his hand. “What happened?” 

Steve tries to find the words for it. For the nightmares that haunt him and the past he ran from. Blood and burning rubber and smoke. 

“I had a friend. A friend that cared a lot about me. She tried to help.” Steve winces. “I tried to get away and she tried to help, but we both ended up bloody instead.” 

Billy pulls him a bit closer. Tucks Steve’s face under his jaw, so that when he confesses his sins, only Billy can hear it. 

“She shot him,” Steve breathes. “I took the fall, so she wouldn’t have to. Ran away. Hid.” 

“Hiding,” Billy says, repeating Steve’s words from the night before, something thoughtful and kind on his tongue. “You were hiding.” 

Steve nods, nosing up against Billy’s steady pulse, until it soothes his ragged nerves. “I was hiding. Then, you found me.” 

For a while, they stay there like that. Billy’s arms around him, Steve tucked up against him, hiding and somehow found. 

Then, Billy pulls back. 

“He’s dead?” he asks. 

Steve blinks, nods, and cracks a broken little smile. “Cold and buried.” 

Billy grunts. “Too bad.” 

Steve’s struck, again, suddenly with the reminder that Billy isn’t a  _ good  _ person. That he’s as dark as they come. As wicked and destructive as Steve could ever  _ dream.  _

That Steve isn’t the only one with blood on his hands, laying in this bed, covered in white sheets and warm daylight. 

“What would you have done?” Steve asks, holding steady when Billy’s eyes meet his once more, hard and unrelenting. “If he wasn’t dead. What would you have done?” 

“You don’t wanna hear that, baby--” 

“Billy,” Steve says, slipping his arms more tightly around him. “What would you have done?” 

Billy offers up a grimace, almost like he’s ashamed to admit it. He cradles the back of Steve’s head and thumbs behind his ear. 

“I would’ve made him hurt,” Billy says. 

Steve feels something like warmth flood through him. Feels it rush, like a flood, decimating all barriers. Ruining everything left of the walls he’s kept so high inside of him. 

Steve shudders and pulls closer. Feels safer, here, with this monster than he’s ever felt anywhere else. 

Wetting his lips, Steve kisses along Billy’s cheek until he gets to his ear. Then, in a something less than a whisper, he breathes: “tell me how.” 

Opens his arms and lets the monster, the man, curl into him. Welcomes him. Lets him make himself at home within Steve’s hold. 

Listens as Billy tells him. Listens as he whispers all the ways he’d break the man that broke Steve. Listens to the ways-- and there are  _ so many--  _ until Steve’s head is swimming with them. Until there’s no room for fear. 

Not when a monster as pretty as Billy loves him. 

And when, on the high of relief and affection, both of them raw and bleeding in his chest, Steve offers up his beating heart to Billy’s hands, Billy takes it gently. Easily. 

“I’ll never hurt you,” Billy promises, and Steve hears the truth ring in it. “Nothing’s ever gonna hurt you, baby. I’ll never let it happen.” 

“I know,” Steve kisses him. “I know, Billy.” 

Fin? 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last minute birthday gift epilogue for the lovely harringrovelove ❤


End file.
